For You, My Dear
by Venstre
Summary: Holmes didn't die at Reichenbach. He came mighty close, however. As much as he would have loved to return home, there are other pressing matters at hand. Set after A Game of Shadows; take as you like Holmes/Watson.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: For You, My Dear  
><strong>Description<strong>: Holmes didn't die at Reichenbach. He came mighty close, however. As much as he would have loved to return home, there are other pressing matters at hand. Set after A Game of Shadows; take as you like Holmes/Watson.  
><strong>Pairing(s)<strong>: Vaguely implied Holmes/Watson  
><strong>Word Count<strong>: 9,811  
><strong>Notes<strong>: This fic started out as an attempt to combine the ending of Game of Shadows with the events described in The Return of Sherlock Holmes (in the books), but then I realized writing of Holmes alone in Tibet for two years would be terribly uninteresting and would not make for enjoyable reading. So I watered it down some and just pretty much wrote of a completely different journey altogether. It was written a couple of months ago, but I never really got around to posting it until now.

And I'll add a faint hinting at the pairing near the end, whether you take it as anything more than platonic is entirely up to the reader.

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><p><strong>One<strong>

Holmes was at peace as he and Moriarty flew over the edge of Reichenbach Falls.

He knew neither he nor his adversary would survive the giant drop to the churning waters below, and even if they did, hypothermia would get them before they had a chance to get to safety. In fact, he could already feel it settling now, with the chilling water already soaking his skin and freezing in the subzero temperatures.

He felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth, his ears blocking out Moriarty's screaming; but all traces vanished when he thought of Watson, his dear friend. He had not thought, pulling Moriarty and himself over the edge right as Watson stepped out. He could have had his friend help him; then perhaps this could have been avoided.

Of course, all of these thoughts went through his head in mere seconds. He let go of his grip on Moriarty, feeling him fall away from him, and the freezing mist of the falls grow thicker.

Cold was too generous a word to describe what he felt next.

He knew he'd hit the water when he felt all the air in his lungs unceremoniously driven out like he had been struck in the sternum. He had hoped for a quicker end—striking his head on a rock, perhaps—than drowning, or god forbid, freezing. The doubts he had forced himself not to think about before plunging from the balcony rose back up in him, swallowing his thoughts like a dark cloud.

He thrashed desperately, trying to breathe, but sucked in a large amount of glacial water instead. His mind wondered where Moriarty was briefly, but he did not have time to elaborate on the thought when suddenly freezing air was on his face as he broke the surface.

The quick breath he forced into his lungs was beyond painful. Sharp splinters incapacitated his throat, and he floundered helplessly in the water. His hand brushed something beside him, and he looked to see the limp body of Moriarty for less than a second before he was pulled under again.

Holmes was growing weak. His injured shoulder screamed with the pain of struggling, but he could not afford to favour it. He was terribly cold, and his limbs began to feel stiff. He couldn't breathe trapped under the water, and he mentally kicked himself for believing that death would ever come quickly to himself in the first place. No, it favoured Moriarty on that one, judging by the lack of movement from the limp body beside him.

His mind was beginning to fog, his thought pattern crumbling. He couldn't even deduce his chance of survival as he was churned in the rough waters.

Body growing steadily number, thoughts unable to form, and lungs unable to draw a breath, Holmes stopped his thrashing and let himself go limp. He didn't have the energy to fight anymore, and merely closed his eyes and awaited his demise.

Just when his lungs were at the point of bursting, he remembered the oxygen supply.

He'd slipped it from Mycroft's residence when he wasn't looking, and had stashed it in his jacket just in case. He knew that something like this might happen, as much as he preferred it did not. Reaching into his jacket to get it, he felt on the edge of his consciousness when he managed to grasp it.

Air rushed to his lungs as he took a hungry breath, reviving him somewhat and giving him more strength to fight. He was careful not to breathe with his nose, and as he was thrown about the current he fought his best to make it to the surface. But even the oxygen wouldn't keep him alive forever, and the cold was already sinking through his skin down to his bones. It wasn't long before he was weak all over again.

He wasn't expecting the blast of cold air on his face and the sudden chill that jolted him back to reality. Opening his eyes and realizing he had been swept up onto the bank, he did a mental check to make sure he still had all of his limbs. He immediately threw himself into the lee of a large rock, feeling the wind bite significantly less at him. It wouldn't be long until he succumbed to frostbite or hypothermia, but he knew he still had a fighting chance.

He quickly stripped off his outermost clothes, feeling the cold beginning to render his limbs useless, and wrung them out beside him. Slipping them back on he felt little warmth return, but it was better than nothing. Surviving, it seemed, was more than difficult. He had less than fifteen minutes before he lost consciousness, and then perhaps fifteen more before his death.

Holmes knew if he simply sat in wait he would be dead in minutes. His hair was now frozen, his fingers had lost feeling, and his legs felt nearly useless. Taking a deep breathe from the oxygen supply he found it made little difference—though any help was appreciated. He pushed himself up regardless, and staggering through the woods to where he thought he had seen a cottage on the way to the Falls, and forced himself onwards. On the way he thought he saw the shadow of a man far off in the forest, but he couldn't be sure if it was real or his mind playing tricks.

At first he did not think he was going the right way, but then the faint smell of a wooden fire touched his nose and he pressed on. What felt like hours passed, but he knew was less than five minutes , and finally he stood before a squat little log cabin with smoke billowing from the chimney.

Holmes all but threw himself at the door, his fingers useless to him now as he elbowed it weakly. He collapsed against the wooden frame, for a few seconds fearing that no one was home.

But then an older woman was at the door, looking around confusedly—Holmes guessed she did not get visitors often, if at all—and finally, looking down, made a choking noise with her throat before stumbling backwards.

Holmes opened his mouth to say something, but ended up thrown into a coughing fit instead. A man, perhaps her husband, came to the door and stared at him in shock before quickly saying something in French. Holmes, his mind already slipping, could not decipher what exactly he said, but made an effort to stand when the man grabbed his shoulder and dragged him in.

He collapsed on the couch the man led him to, feeling exhaustion finally taking him over. The last thing he thought of was Watson's face, and how much more agony he was probably going through than himself at that exact moment.

* * *

><p>When Holmes woke again, he felt terribly sore and not perspicacious in the least. He knew not where he was, not what had happened to him. Confusion was all that was on his mind. That, and the fact he was warm.<p>

A lady, maybe sixty or seventy, was watching him and making something over the stove. When she saw him awake, she broke into a large smile and called for her companion.

"_Lukas! Lukas, come here! He has awakened!_" she yelled in French.

"Where…" Holmes began, before switching his speech to French. "_Where am I?_" he asked, his voice raspy and painful. He swallowed hard, trying to soothe his throat.

The woman reached over to the table behind her and grabbed a mug. "_Here, drink some cider. You must get some fluids into you._" Holmes took it in shaking hands, and poured some down his throat. "_You're in Switzerland, my dear._"

Holmes nearly spit out his drink.

A man appeared behind her, his smile just as big as hers. "_How good for you to join the living once more!_" he beamed, reaching down to pat his shoulder. "_We thought you were a goner for a while there._"

Holmes slowly sat up, his shoulder aching, eyeing his surroundings carefully. He was in a small cottage, well insulated and smelling strongly of smoke. Suddenly everything came back to him—the plunge, the freezing water, and the excruciating struggle to reach the cottage. He swallowed back some cider and rubbed his throat.

"_I cannot thank you enough,_" Holmes told them sincerely, his throat burning with the effort of talking. "_I did not mean to intrude. I—_"

"_Think nothing of it,_" the man, Lukas, interrupted him with a wave of his hand. "_We couldn't leave you out there to freeze. What kind of people would we be?_"

Holmes dipped his head in thanks once more. "_How long have I been here?_" he asked, ingesting more cider to sooth his throat.

"_Oh, perhaps a week,_" the lady told him, standing up and walking to the kitchen. "_You really must have something to eat. You're probably terribly weak._"

Not so much. He could go days without eating—much to Watson's distress.

Watson.

The thought hit him like a brick, knowing they had probably already held his funeral. A funeral to be held with no body. He did not want to think about who would attend, who would be subject to the anguish caused by his death. He could not. But again Watson's face broke through his thoughts, that unknowing look that he knew would soon change to disbelief, and then to horror, finally followed with agony.

He had put the man through so much. He most certainly did not deserve this on top of all of that.

"_Ursela, my goodness, the man just regained consciousness. How is he supposed to eat all that?_" Lukas's words broke through Holmes's thoughts.

Looking down to see a platter filled with bread and cheese. Though he would not admit it Holmes was famished, and he had soon devoured half the plate. He caught a glimpse of Ursela's face as she smirked at her husband, _I told you so_ stated clearly on her features.

Though his throat still hurt, he carried on more conversation with the couple. They were friendly, and very talkative. To say he did most of the listening was very much an understatement. Not that he minded, for he was in no condition to ramble on like he knew he always did at present.

They would not let Holmes leave until the following day, when Ursela could make sure that he was well enough to go. She insisted that he took another day to rest, and then Lukas would escort him to the train station. When he tried to convince him not to take the energy to do so, Lukas merely waved it off and told him their little vacation on the summit was drawing to a close anyways.

Long after Lukas and Ursela had retired that night, Holmes got up and paced. Partially to test his muscles after so long being unconscious and because of the hypothermia he was sure he caught, and partially to think. He stopped suddenly when he remembered the confederate, Moran, who had been Moriarty's right hand man. He of all people would be beyond upset with Moriarty's death, and Holmes knew at once he was a danger to Watson and Mary, and perhaps Mycroft. To many more people as well if he decided to carry out Moriarty's dirty work.

Holmes would have to wait to embrace London as himself once more. He would rid the world of Moran, and only after would he step forwards as himself again.

* * *

><p>He had Lukas stop at the hillside castle Mycroft had taken lodging in to gather some of his things. Mycroft had long since departed for London, but many of his things still remained. A wooden box with a postage stamp yet no address caught Holmes's eye, and upon discovering it was empty he insolently shoved it into his luggage bag. He also dressed in his own clothes again, returning those of Lukas's he had borrowed with another thanks.<p>

By the time they got to the train station it was well in the afternoon, and after parting with the couple Holmes took the soonest train home. He did not have much in the way of currency, but he had just enough to scrape his way back. And enough to send a single parcel back to London, wrapped in a cedar box.

The long trip back to London gave him more than enough time to plan his exact course of action. Now, he just had to set it into motion.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes**: Okay this chapter was supposed to be longer but it just felt right to end it here. What the heck do I put in these note things how do I fanfiction wat

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><p><strong>Two<strong>

Upon returning to London, the first thing Holmes did was break into his old apartment.

He reasoned that Mycroft had laid claim to the place, though Mrs. Hudson was most likely the only one living in it now. Holmes's old room had been locked from the outside, and he made quick work of picking the lock and slipping inside.

How he'd missed his old room. He gathered as much of the things he needed as he could, donning several disguises, clothes, one of his blank urban camouflage suits and his violin. His room had not been touched since he and Watson had left for Switzerland, and he was glad. He re-locked the room before slipping out, safe from the eyes and ears of Mrs. Hudson. She of all people could not know of his existence.

He applied a fake beard and a top hat, and as an afterthought added long eyebrows to the disguise. He then walked through London, preferring to walk to where he knew Watson and Mary live than to take a cab.

Breaking into their house felt a little shameful even for him, and though he knew no one was home he still tiptoed around the place. He found Watson's study, his work scattered around the table. He had been writing about Reichenbach.

Holmes felt guilt smack him like an iron, and he wished he could confide in Watson of his existence. But he knew that he could not. He had to wait until Moran was extinguished from the equation before he could reveal himself to his dear friend.

Instead he mapped out the room, took it in, and decided where he would camouflage himself. The red velvet chair directly in front of Watson's desk would certainly be a comfortable place, though right in the doctor's line of sight. However, seeing as standing for possibly hours at a time would be impossible, he chose the chair anyways.

The next few days were spent hiding out until the couple left, and then working on the camouflage suit. He painted it perfectly, including even the stains and spots on the chair's surface. He knew he still has two days until the package was delivered, and based on the point in time where Watson was still writing, he had about that much time left before he was done as well. Good. Only after he was done writing his final account, after he had shared with the world the death of Sherlock Holmes, will Holmes be permitted to share some sort of calm with him.

So he waited the time out. Holmes has always been a patient man when it comes to such matters, and the day he knew the parcel would come he snuck into Watson's study and settled himself onto the chair. If not now, then never.

* * *

><p>He immediately regretted his decision when he saw Watson writing the final few paragraphs of his account. Several times he stopped his writing to drop his hands at his sides, as if he could not bring himself to finish it. But each time he persevered, forcing himself to continue writing. The heart that Watson had tried to convince Holmes he had time over time agonized with him, and Holmes scoffed silently at himself for allowing Watson to be right while he was wrong for once.<p>

He finished so at the perfect moment. Holmes could see from his position—which Watson still has not noticed—the doctor type the words _THE END_, and he had to stop himself from sighing.

It was very uncomfortable, sitting in one position for hours on end. Though he realized that he deserved it, putting Watson through so much more pain.

When Mary came in Holmes could not miss the faint smell of sickliness, one that judging by Watson's blissful ignorance he had missed. Her eyes had a certain sheen to them, and her breathing seemed somewhat more pained. But she did not tell him—no, not so close to their honeymoon. As much as Holmes disliked her, he couldn't help but to respect her for putting her own wellbeing aside for the sake of her husband's happiness.

She was carrying a parcel for him, and after they talked of the honeymoon and unsurprisingly Holmes himself she placed it on his desk for him and left. At first Holmes was afraid he was not going to open it, but the many stamps from its long journey changed his mind and he did so slowly.

His face turned from confusion to tentative elation, and he held the oxygen machine in the air to study it. He called after Mary, following her down the hall, and Holmes watched him go. And with a smile on his face, he stood from the chair.

Gladstone. He'd forgotten about Gladstone.

Commanding a hushed _sshh_ at the dog when he perked up his head, he made his way to the typewriter. He knew that Watson would have to rewrite the entire page, but he grinned with childish glee as he added a question mark to the final story of Sherlock Holmes. He wanted to give Watson hope, but not enough for him to start making wild assumptions.

Watson was coming back now, and Holmes realized he did not have time enough to resume his position on the chair. Quickly opening the window, he grabbed hold of the drainage pipe from outside and lowered himself down. He garnered his regular clothes and slipped back into them, applying the disguise once more.

* * *

><p>"Wretched fool!" Mycroft bellowed at Holmes, pacing the area in front of the fireplace at his home. Very few times had Mycroft ever paced during his entire life, and Holmes allowed himself a slight about of indulgence for being the reason of one of them.<p>

It was short-lived, as Mycroft suddenly grabbed his brother and held him tight. They had very seldom ever embraced, even as children, and the sensation was odd. Holmes awkwardly placed his hands on Mycroft's back.

Mycroft pulled away almost as quickly as he had come. "Do you know how much grief you've caused me?" he cried, resorting to pacing again. "Do you know how much grief you've caused everyone?"

Holmes merely dipped his head in silent shame. Yes, he was in fact very aware.

"And now the criminals in this city have run amok…Scotland Yard has not a clue know what to do. And what of those you left in your absence, Sherly? Watson most of all. How that poor man has suffered." Mycroft treaded towards Holmes as he said those last words.

Holmes stepped forward and grabbed Mycroft's shoulder, gesturing with his other hand for him to stop. "I know, Mycroft," he choked out. "I…know."

Mycroft sank his weight onto his heels, placing his hands on his pockets. "Sit," he told Holmes, gesturing towards a chair by the fire. "Tell me of what happened. And for goodness sake, Sherly, do eat something before you wither away to nothing."

Holmes took the tea that Mycroft had offered to him, but left the sandwiches untouched. He wasn't hungry. He told Mycroft of how he had been washed up on a bank and nearly froze to death, and of Lukas and Ursela and how they had helped him.

"You're very lucky, Sherly," Mycroft interrupted him. "Most of the Swiss speak German. And typically are not as hospitable as those two."

"I know, Mycroft," Holmes repeated himself, exhaling a sigh of exasperation. "Anyways, I have come to you because you are the sole confidant I can afford at this time."

"Not even Watson?" Mycroft inquired. Holmes wished he would stop bringing him up.

"No, not even Watson," Holmes said slowly. "I trust that you will keep my return secret."

"Of course," Mycroft assured him, "but what is it exactly you are hoping to accomplish by doing so?"

Holmes stood, reaching out with his right hand to gesture but quickly drawing it back from the sharp pain in his shoulder.

"You really should get that checked," Mycroft told him.

Holmes simply glared at his brother, not even bothering to repeat _I know, Mycroft_ once more. "Moran. Sebastian Moran. Moriarty's right-hand man, and the second-most dangerous man in London." He paused, and rethought has last sentence. "Well I suppose the most dangerous now, following certain events. But he is not alone in his conquest. There are several more of Moriarty's gang still on the loose, and I aspire to bring justice to them all."

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "You know that I am not the one for this job, right Sherly?"

Holmes mouth turned downwards in a frown, though he knew he would not be able to convince him otherwise. "Yes, I am aware of that," he growled. "That is why I come to you with a different dilemma. Seeing as how I am unable to take cases now without blowing my cover, I require funds to help me bring these men down."

Mycroft laughed, and for a second Holmes was confused. "You come back from the dead, Sherly, and the first thing you ask of me is money?"

Holmes looked at the ground. "Well, when worded that way…"

Beaming an amused smile, Mycroft waved his words away. "Of course I'll help. I never said I wouldn't. You need only do one thing for me in return."

Holmes lowered his head and raised his eyebrows, willing him to speak.

"As soon as all is said and done, go and see your dear doctor. Nothing else is of greater importance. And do not take too long."

Holmes narrowed his eyes at him, suspecting something, but there was nothing but sincerity in his features. He should have expected as much. After all, his older brother's skill of deductive reasoning was stronger than even his own, and the man obviously knew of something he did not.

"Alright," Holmes told him. "You have my word."


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

Two weeks later, under the alibi of Clarence House, Holmes was hunting down Moriarty's men. Many would soon flee the country, he knew, and he had every intention to follow them. And follow them he would.

Five of Moriarty's men still in London. Two had already been apprehended, and Holmes was sure he would make quick work of them and return to his old life before the year's end.

However, he was not expecting one of the brighter henchmen to catch his scent, and Holmes only caught two before the other three took off. He cursed himself for his foolishness—Moriarty was not the type to surround himself with blathering fools, after all—and thought up of a new plan.

The year was already beginning to reach its end. Christmastime was right around the corner, and Holmes couldn't help but to think of his dear friend. He thought about him quite often, in fact, though he had never before had time to check up on him.

He fashioned his best disguise, and made his way to the market he knew Watson and Mary purchased their weekly groceries at. Every Sunday, mid-afternoon. Mary had a knack for keeping things consistent.

His eyes were set beneath thick white eyebrows, his mouth concealed by a beard to match. He hobbled around the market, finally taking a seat beside a grower Watson often visited. And he waited.

Not long after he took his post he saw the doctor himself. Holmes felt something flitter in his chest, between fear and anticipation. Mary was not accompanying him, and even from a distance Holmes could detect the distressed air coming from him. His head drooped ever so slightly, he leaned on his cane more than he usually did, and he had a slouch to his usually pin-straight posture. Something was wearing on him.

Suddenly remembering the sickness that he had seen in his friend's wife months ago, Holmes realized that 'something' was Mary.

_She is dying,_ he thought to himself. Holmes felt his heart ache for him. First he had lost one of his best friends, and now he was losing his wife.

Holmes had to look down as Watson turned towards him, but he did not expect anything—why would he?—and quickly spoke with the grower.

"A dozen apples, please."

The grower grunted in understanding, and handed him a bag. "Threw an extra couple in there for tha lady," he told the doctor with a tip of his hat. "Do tell 'er I wish 'er a good recovery."

Watson smiled, thanked him, and limped off.

It was such an inconvenient time for Holmes to have to hunt down Moriarty's men.

He stood quickly, and made his way to the nearest alleyway. The midday sun shone through the fog as bright as it could, but the alley was still dark and Holmes suddenly felt ill at ease. He turned to look behind him, and soon found himself pushed face-first against the wall by a strong hand on his neck.

"Such a shame it would be if something was to happen to the good doctor," a familiar voice snarled in his ear. "Pity about the lady. Illness took its shot at her before I could."

Holmes quickly elbowed away the arm, and whirled around to face the speaker. "Moran," Holmes growled, the name leaving an ill taste in his mouth. "Have you chosen to stay in London as your underlings fled to various parts of Europe?"

Moran ignored him, and nodded at Holmes's shoulder. "I see you still haven't got that fixed," he jeered. "Bloody awful if it were to slow you down when you can least afford it."

Holmes would have punched the man right there and then, if a man had not walked past them just then. Holmes leaned in close, his teeth gritted as he hissed in the other man's ear.

"I'm after you, Moran," he threatened him. "I've already apprehended four of your men. Three remain. I will make quick work of them. Know that if you cross my path, I will not hesitate to grant you the same favour." He paused his nostrils flared and his teeth bared in a sneer, and then continued. "And know as well that if you dare hurt Watson, or Mary, Hell is not strong enough a word for what I will bring upon you."

Moran laughed, a bare, humourless sound. "We'll see about that," he told Holmes as he walked back into the streets. Holmes wished he could give chase; he wished he could pound the man's face into the street. But that would have to wait; his cover could not be blown.

Holmes wondered how Moran had known he was still alive. The image of the man in the forest of Reichenbach suddenly came to him, and he rested a hand to his face in irritation. Of course, he would go to check if his employer was in fact still alive. And when he saw that it was Holmes that had survived the fall, he would immediately plan his downfall.

Making a noise in the back of his throat resembling a growl, Holmes ran back to Mycroft's.

* * *

><p>Holmes initially did not know where Moriarty's men had fled, but he prevailed and tracked them down. There was one that he had not initially known about, who met with Moran in Tibet, but within just a little over a year he had detained all but the two. Moran had escaped his clutches more times than once, and finally he had returned to London to continue the chase there.<p>

Four months in, he had received a wire from Mycroft informing him that Mary had died. Holmes momentarily grieved for Watson's loss, but larger stakes were at hand and he did not have time to dwell on the matter.

Upon returning to London, Holmes set a larger plan into action. He would try to detain from killing Moran, but he knew that there were many things that Moran was capable that would bring Holmes to do it without a second thought.

"There's a telegraph addressed to you on the table," Mycroft told him upon two days of returning to London. "I thought you had said no one was to know of your presence?"

"They were not," Holmes told him, dread sinking in his stomach.

The telegraph was short, and it made Holmes's blood boil.

_Nice weather we're having, Holmes. Perfect for a funeral. I only hope you're not too busy to attend._

It left no address, no sender, thought Holmes knew exactly who had sent it. He crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the fire, lowering his brows in dark thought. He paced in front of the flames, his hands held behind his back.

"Is something wrong, Sherly?"

Holmes barely heard the comment from his brother, for he tripped over one of the fire pokers that had been carelessly left on the ground. He threw out his arms to break his fall, and though his shoulder was nearly healed he felt a very slight pain as his weight fell upon it.

He hurriedly picked himself up, brushing himself off. Mycroft had risen from his spot and strode over, looking Holmes over with a careful eye.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asked him.

"Yesterday," Holmes told him.

"You're lying."

Holmes scowled, and continued pacing. "It matters not. I've gone without sleep longer than this."

Mycroft heaved a sigh, and settled back down onto his chair. "Whatever you say. Is there anything I may be of assistance for?"

Holmes paused, thinking through his plan once more. "Actually, there is one thing."

He spent a good quarter of the hour explaining to Mycroft, and then wasted the rest of the day plucking at his violin. When nightfall came and his brother retired for the night, he ran out of the house and all the way to Watson's new residence. He knew sleep did not have a place in the near future for him as long as Moran was still a free man.

He knew what kind of a man Moran was, and what exactly he was capable of. And he knew that he would target Watson first, to enrage Holmes, and then finish the job Moriarty never had the chance to finish and kill the detective himself.

It was Tuesday. Watson would probably have a client to see, and Holmes stuck close to his home while still staying concealed until he finally emerged. However woeful Holmes had thought Watson to be before he had left to jail Moriarty's men, he was a completely different man when Watson walked down the street. He had the slow step of a man much older than himself, and a somber air about him.

Holmes followed him, checking the windows of buildings as they walked. Anywhere where Moran could be lying in wait.

There was an abandoned house where Holmes knew that Moran would be able to set up and take a clear shot of Watson from his living room. He would take it when the streets were not busy and when Watson in his living room, most likely in the evening, and most likely within the next day or two.

Of course, this was all just an observation and a theory. But as always, Holmes somehow felt that it was correct.

So he set up a watch on the house, discreet and secretive about it. And as he had thought, the next evening the confederate came with his gun and tripod and entered the vacant building. And Holmes followed.

He entered the house silently from the back door, tiptoeing on feet quiet as a cat's to the main room. At first he thought he had made it in unnoticed, as Moran was adjusting his rifle to the right angle, but then he sighed, looked down, and turned.

"I can't do this with an audience, you know," he told Holmes impatiently, setting down the rolled cigarette he had been previously occupied with.

"Oh, too bad," Holmes told him with a twitch of his eyebrows and a lengthening of his face. "I was rather looking forward to observing your preparations."

"Only my preparations?" Moran inquired, a dark edge on his tongue.

Holmes nodded. "Yes," he stated, "only your preparations."

It was then that Moran leapt at him, bearing a knife from his pocket and bringing it down towards Holmes. The detective cursed at himself; he had not expected Moran to have any weapon other than his rifle with him.

Moran was an avid fighter—one must be to serve in Afghanistan. Holmes picked up a rusted old pipe to block Moran's slashes, but after a few hits it broke and Holmes stumbled back.

With unmatched speed, Moran had brought the knife down upon Holmes. He managed to dodge slightly, but he hissed out a breath as Moran just caught his chest. Holmes tripped over the broken pipe, and Moran suddenly turned and fled, grabbing his rifle.

And Holmes, of course, gave chase.

Moran was quick, and he knew the streets of London just as well as Holmes did. He ran until they were at the river, the nearly completed Tower Bridge where Holmes and Blackwood had their final encounter standing in their way. Moran slung his rifle over his back and began to climb, ascending the levels of scaffolding to reach the top.

Holmes followed, ignoring the faint pain from his shoulder. Deliberately kicking things in Holmes's direction, Moran finally reached the top of the structure and quickly set down his gun and readied it for use.

He reached the top sooner than Moran had expected, but he was no longer alone. The last grunt of Moriarty's was with him, and whipped out a pistol and took a quick shot at the detective.

Holmes felt a pain rip into his side, and he fell to one knee. Moran let out a laugh, picking up his rifle once more.

"Good job, Roderick," he praised the younger man. "You may useful to us yet." He walked over to Holmes, grabbing his right shoulder and forcing him up. "You may be a genius, Holmes," he snarled in his ear, "but even a genius can't take a bullet to the head and still live."

"Actually, you are indeed wrong in the matter. You see, if the path it travels—"

Moran shoved him to the ground. "Oh, shut up."

Holmes looked at the two men, wondering what was taking so long.

"You're a lot of work, Holmes," Moran told him. "I was looking forward to killing the doctor first, just to see your face. I guess we can't all have everything we want, though."

Holmes looked at him, and laughed.

Moran scowled at him, and cocked his gun. "Quit laughing, you glock!"

Holmes looked up at him, grinning ear-to-ear and still snickering. Moran snarled and shoved the butt of his rifle into Holmes's face, and Holmes felt his temple explode with pain. The spot would be dark with bruises sooner than not. His face hit the wood of the scaffolding, and when he got his hands under him to push himself up Holmes's grin had not faded.

"Wipe that smile off your face, or I'll shoot it off right now!" Moran roared, kicking the detective in the side—thankfully not the side that had been shot, but it hurt nonetheless.

"Oh, I rather think you will not," Holmes told him, rolling onto his side.

Moran bared his teeth to launch something else at him, but paused when he heart the shrill noise of a whistle and the yelling of the Yard.

"Stop right there!" Clark yelled at Moran and Roderick, several more officers following behind him. Lestrade was right on their heels, grinning when he saw the two men.

"Well well, what do we have here?" he said, taking the two in. "You're Sebastian Moran, are you not? We've been looking for you for some time."

Holmes was still faced away from them, half-laying on the ground. As Moran and Roderick were sent off with the officers, Clark bent down to lend him a hand.

"Good sir, we got the call from your acquaintance, Mycroft. Your efforts are much appreciated—"

Holmes grinned as he took in the shocked look on the constable's face.

"Think nothing of it," Holmes told him cheerfully, picking himself up as Clark was otherwise occupied.

"Holmes, sir!" Clark exclaimed, blinking as if to wake himself. "But how?"

Lestrade turned around at the name, and opened his mouth to speak but stopped when he saw the detective. His jaw dropped, moving as if trying to force words, and Holmes grinned.

"How excellent it is to see the two of you again," Holmes told them, clasping his hands behind his back. "I trust Moran in your hands. But for now, other matters are afoot."

He guessed that Lestrade had caught sight of his sorry state, for he called after him. "But Holmes, you're wounded!"

"Don't worry," Holmes told him, carefully lowering himself down onto a lower piece of scaffolding. "I'm going to see a doctor!"

Lestrade called something else after him, but Holmes ignored it. He would tell them of what had happened another day, but for now he needed to be somewhere else.

He _had_ been shot, however, and the journey down was a painful one. He could tell by the position of the bullet that in his frenzy Roderick had not aimed properly and had missed Holmes's major organs, though he knew that if he did not see a doctor soon he would bleed to death.

As he limped his way through the streets, applying the white facial hair and wig, he noticed it was beginning to snow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes**: Thanks Duffy for catching the page break I missed in the last chapter! I sometimes forget that Fanfiction doesn't transfer them over from Word Documents and that I have to add them in myself, and I wouldn't have noticed otherwise.

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><p><strong>Four<strong>

It was after dark when Holmes reached Watson's, but he urged the maid that he must see the man at once and she led him to his study as she went to fetch the doctor.

Holmes skimmed the titles that Watson held, finding a spot dedicated solely to those that Holmes had given him before he had moved in with Mary. Before they had been untouched, for Watson had not much cared for the reading Holmes indulged in, but now their spines were bent and their covers worn. Holmes smiled a little to himself at that.

"Good evening, sir," he heart Watson say behind him, suspicion laced in his voice. "Is there something I may help you with?"

Holmes turned around and smiled at Watson. Putting on a croaky voice, he spoke with a lower-class accent. "Indeed you can, sir," he told him, sitting in one of the chairs as Watson limped behind his desk. "You are a doctor, are you not?"

Watson paused, nodding. "I am."

"I was hoping you would be willing to assist me with something," Holmes told him, trying not to acknowledge the pain from the bullet wound.

"And what might that be?" Watson sounded a little annoyed now. Holmes looked up at him, took in his features. Bags under his eyes from not sleeping. Dullness to his features from his current lack of emotion. And a few gray hairs lining his temples, despite the fact that he was still young.

"You see, sir, I have a most intriguing case," Holmes told him, looking down at his hand. "A close friend of mine has an illness. I was wondering if you could help me diagnose it." Without looking up, he jerked his head towards the bookshelf. "Your book, _Diseases of Mideastern Asia_, might be of some help."

Watson narrowed his eyes, not quite getting where Holmes was going. But he turned around anyways, having to pull a footstool to reach the top shelf of his books. It gave Holmes enough time to pull of his disguise, quickly depositing it into the bag he had brought in beside him, and stood up, flashing a thin smile in the doctor's direction.

Watson brought the book down and set it on the table, raising his eyes to look at Holmes. Something like bewilderment flashed in his face, which turned to utter astonishment. No matter how stony-faced Watson liked to believe he looked, he was but an open book to Holmes.

And then the poor man fainted.

Holmes had just enough time to lurch forward and grab his friend, catching him before he hit his head on the table. His wound screamed; he merely ignored the pain. It was not quite the reaction Holmes had expected, but it caused him to giggle like a schoolgirl at the irony of it.

Holmes could not wipe the grin from his face as he set Watson down on the settee and undid his collar. So long he had been without his dear friend; so much they had missed. And now that no one was in any immediate danger, things could resume to normal. Or as close to normal as they could achieve, Holmes having faked his death and all.

Two years had passed since the incident and Reichenbach. A little over a year since Mary's death. Watson had suffered alone for many months, and Holmes did feel awful for that. His mind felt dizzy from the blood loss he knew he was experiencing, but it was still clear enough to make out thoughts and emotions.

He walked over to Watson's liquor cabinet and poured two glasses of brandy, and immediately washed one down for himself. The other he brought to Watson, setting it on his lips and letting it trickle into his mouth.

It did not take long for the doctor to come to. He resumed that astonished look, and merely gaped at the living ghost in front of him.

"My dear Watson," Holmes said, his head resting on his chin, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected."

He found himself at odds again when Watson punched him. He had not expected that reaction either. Not hard, but with enough force to make him see stars.

"You had no idea that I would be so affected?" Watson cried. "Holmes, what are you, blathering mad?"

Holmes opened his mouth to answer, but Watson spoke before he could.

"No, don't answer that question. We all know the answer already. Do you have any idea what you put us all through? What you put _me_ through? How in the devil did you survive that fall? I ought to kill you for all you've put us through!"

He reached for Holmes, and the detective slunk back defensively. But it was unnecessary, for instead of striking him again Watson pulled him into an embrace.

Holmes cried out involuntarily when Watson put pressure on his wound, and he immediately drew back. His brow creased in worry when he saw the blood staining Holmes's shirt, and he grabbed his hand.

"You're hurt," he stated.

Holmes smirked at him. "Always stating the obvious," he joked.

Watson rushed over to the other side of the room, grabbing his medical bag. "What did you do to yourself?"

"I saved your life, actually," Holmes told him, removing his shirt and lying on his other side. He was facing the doctor, preferring not to look at the hurt in his eyes. When Watson just stood there, staring at Holmes, he snapped, "Are you going to stand there all day or help?"

Watson broke out of his trance, and immediately set to work on cleaning all of the blood. "Sorry," he offered. "I keep thinking that I've been visited by a ghost."

Holmes had nothing to say to that. By the amount of time it took cleaning, Holmes guessed that there was more than he had originally thought. Exhaustion was beginning to catch up with him, days without sleeping finally taking their toll.

"I'm sorry I struck you," Watson mumbled.

Holmes shrugged. "I'm sorry I did not let you know sooner."

"You must share with me the details of what happened as soon as you're patched up and rested," he insisted. "I need to be sure I'm not delusional."

There was a sad edge to his tone, and Holmes continued to avoid looking at his face.

"You're awfully thin."

Holmes couldn't help a smirk, the familiar remark bringing some comfort to the both of them.

Watson gave him a sedative so that he could remove the bullet, but even through the drugs Holmes could feel the pain setting his mind on edge. He sat quietly for much of the time, concentrating on Watson's steady breathing to calm his mind.

"I'm sorry," Holmes mumbled, his voice muffled by the pillow he had his face turned towards.

"For what, Holmes?" Watson seemed genuinely confused by the comment.

Holmes closed his eyes, avoiding Watson's gaze. "For acting impetuously, and not seeking your aid before I threw Moriarty and myself over the falls."

He could almost feel Watson smile at him, and Holmes opened his eyes as he set a hand down on his hair. Watson smiled down at him, sad eyes looking happier than Holmes had seen them for a while.

"Dear Holmes, you needn't be sorry," he told him, though his eyes smarted with a faint trace of tears. "You did only what you thought was best for the world."

"Damn the world," Holmes growled, causing uncertainty to flash through Watson's eyes. "Prison would do him fine if it had been the world I was concerned for." Watson pulled his hand away from his hair and looked at him confusedly. Holmes sighed and looked down once more. "He threatened to kill you and Mary. I simply could not let that happen."

Watson was outraged. "And that's the reason you sacrificed yourself? Because of some threat Moriarty uttered?"

"My dear boy, you know as well as any Moriarty is more than capable of acting on—"

"Holmes!"

"Yes, Watson?"

Watson was seething with emotion. Such a sensitive fellow. "Holmes, that is among the worst reasons I have ever heard for suicide!"

"Hosh posh, we both know that's a lie. In fact, it's one of the better ones."

Watson gritted his teeth and grabbed his face with one hand. "It's no excuse! You didn't have to kill yourself!"

Holmes pouted. "It was the only way."

"No, Holmes, it wasn't!" Watson yelled. "I understand that you were injured and that you couldn't have bested him, but I could have helped you. We could have fought him _together_. You even just said so yourself!"

"Watson, I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation I found myself in. There was no room for error. Say that Moran had come out at that moment. We would not be at favourable odds. The way I did it was the only sure way."

"It wasn't so sure if you survived, now was it?"

Holmes looked down darkly. "I was not expecting to survive that fall. It is purely chance that I did."

He was surprised when Watson chuckled, and scowled at him. "Dear fellow, what may I ask is so amusing?"

Watson smiled down at him, tears glimmering in his eyes. "The fact that for once you are not trying to claim all of the credit for your escape. That you would actually admit to fate."

Holmes felt his scowl deepen, and he shot Watson a glare.

Running his hand over Holmes's head once more, Watson laughed again. It was such a carefree sound, one that Holmes guessed he had not made for many a month.

Holmes couldn't help but to grin a bit at that. "For what it's worth, I am truly sorry."

"Think nothing of it."

Watson's face showed a sad smile. Holmes smirked as well, but stopped abruptly with a hiss of pain when his side throbbed.

"You've lost a lot of blood," Watson told him, a worried edge to his voice.

"Oh hush. Not enough for any serious threat."

Watson frowned, and Holmes gave him a weak smile for reassurance. He guessed with his sudden appearance their last adventure together would be brought up and still sore from Watson's memory.

There was a clatter on the table as Watson dropped the bullet into a tray. He picked up the needle and thread, and after cleaning the wound once more, set to work on stitching it.

"You're lucky, Holmes," he told his friend. "He missed."

Holmes snorted. "Of course. I always am."

Watson shook his head. "More lives than a cat."

"Oh, the numbers don't even compare."

They sat in comfortable silence once more. Perhaps comfortable was not the right word for someone getting an open wound in their side stitched, but it was as good a word as any. He was more than used to being mended by Watson—years ago, before Watson had met Mary, he was stitching up Holmes every week. Neither complained—it was good practice for Watson, not that the doctor would ever turn his friend down, and Holmes was just happy to have someone patch him up.

When the careful snip of scissors and the dropping of the needle on the tray announced that Watson was done, Holmes opened his eyes once more and smiled at him.

"Thank you, dear friend."

Not even he could evade sleep forever, and he fell victim right there and then.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes**: And so comes the conclusion. Thanks for the reads and the reviews!

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><p><strong>Five<strong>

It was late in the morning when Holmes next woke.

His side throbbed and he noticed his shirt was undone. The wound on his chest had been cleaned and bandaged—Watson must have patched it up while he was asleep. A blanket had been carefully deposited on top of him, and a glass of water sat beside him. Holmes grinned to himself and looked around.

Watson was asleep on one of the chairs in front of his desk, his head resting in his hand. Holmes stood, holding the blanket, and draped it over his friend.

He walked over to Watson's desk, seeing the shorts Watson had written about their adventures stored in chronological order in a section of the bookshelf. He picked up the first—_A Study in Scarlet_—and read it once again.

How he'd missed their adventures. Of course he had been independent before he and Watson had moved in together, but it was like the first time he took cocaine. He'd never really known the joy of company before Watson had come along, and as soon as he had a taste of it he knew he could never go back. Having a friend was a new and delightful experience he did not regret in the slightest.

Fondly regarding their first mystery together, Holmes settled onto the desk chair. He had read the story many a time, and merely skimmed through it this time around.

He snapped his gaze up when he heard Watson stir, and saw him look up in confusion. Pushing the blanket off of himself he rose, and a look of uncertainty crossed his face when he saw Holmes before he remembered the night before and blinked away his stupor.

"'Morning," he mumbled, slowly straightening his clothes and patting down his hair.

Holmes tipped his head. "And to you, dear man." He placed the article back in its appropriate spot, and rested his hands at his sides. "I do believe I owe you some answers."

Watson smiled. "Indeed you do." He turned to the door, pausing to look back at Holmes. "Come along, let us discuss it over breakfast. And yes, you _are_ eating."

Holmes groaned and rolled his eyes, furtively studying Watson now that he had his senses about him. Deep-set bags had collected under the doctor's eyes, and he did not carry himself with quite the same demeanor and self-respect he had before. His head held not quite at the same height, his back still with some curve. The man had suffered greatly over the past two years.

"Come now, Holmes. I can't be in that bad of shape, can I?" Watson teased, a knowing smirk to his voice. He was still just as sharp as he had been before.

Holmes leered at him, and followed behind him down the stairs. Watson limped with his cane, favouring his right leg, and Holmes thought he heard him hiss in a breath as his foot slipped on one stair.

"Your leg has seen better days," Holmes remarked. "Perhaps you haven't been using it much lately. It's getting out of shape."

If looks could kill, Holmes would be dead many times over. Watson shot him a glare, which softened a bit when he saw Holmes was speaking in earnest. "Perhaps I haven't had you leading me off on wild goose chases all around town."

Holmes scoffed. "Dear man, I do believe it was in fact _you_ following _me_."

Watson grinned and rolled his eyes. Slowly but surely, Holmes was bringing the old, cheery Watson back out of the shell he had drawn himself into.

While his friend ate Holmes told Watson of his adventures, hunting down Moriarty's men and taking the odd case or two during times where he had nothing to go on. He told him of Lukas and Ursela, of his experience down the falls, and of the urban camouflage he had made to match Watson's chair.

He got a laugh out of that.

"So you've been on quite the journey," Watson remarked.

Holmes nodded. "I'm only sorry I couldn't have told you sooner."

Leaning closer to him, Watson looked at him with mock annoyance. "I've already told you, Holmes, you needn't apologize."

Scowling, Holmes motioned to Watson's gaunt frame. "Of course I must, Watson. Look at you. You've been living with nothing but grief the past two years and I just let you. In my honest opinion, that warrants an apology at the very least."

Watson scowled good-naturedly at the detective. "Indeed, I'm nearly as thin as you."

Holmes snorted. "Don't flatter yourself."

That garnered a laugh from him. Watson had a sip from his coffee, motioning to the plate in front of Holmes. "Now eat, Holmes. You haven't a case right now, so you've no excuse not to."

Holmes smirked at him, and ate his first good meal most likely in months.

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><p>The new estate brought back too many painful memories for Watson. Since Mycroft had kept the lease on 221B, the two decidedly moved back in. Mrs. Hudson was hysterical to see Holmes alive, practically throwing herself on the man and following him around the house for nearly the remainder of the day. Within a week things had returned back to normal—or as normal as they could possibly be with one man seemingly back from the dead.<p>

Late in the evening about two weeks after they had moved back, Holmes was sitting on the settee fingering at his violin. He had made a royal mess of the room, papers strewn nearly everywhere, including over his and Watson's seats.

"Dear god Holmes, the room!" Watson exclaimed as he entered, shedding his coat and vest. "Wherever have you done to it?"

Holmes simply shrugged, pulling out his bow to play a different composition. "I'm going through my old papers. So many cases, so much evidence I no longer have use for."

Watson looked desolately at his chair. Holmes was certain he was going to shove the papers off and take his seat, so he was surprised when Watson walked towards him and sat down next to him. He set down his cane and kicked up his legs on the far arm, resting his head on Holmes's shoulder.

"Dear man, what are you doing?" Holmes asked him, slightly suspicious.

"Making myself comfortable," Watson retorted, shifting himself slightly to emphasize his point.

Holmes sighed, staring down at his friend affectionately. "Well, I can't possibly play my violin with you resting on the arm I am to play with."

He shifted to the side, moving his legs so they were pointed more so at Watson, and pulled the man to his chest. His right arm draped over Watson's chest, and his violin sat beside his left shoulder. Watson opened his mouth to make some sort of complaint, but he stopped when he saw the crooked smile upon Holmes's face. Instead, he grunted and brought his hands together over his stomach.

Holmes carried on playing, fingers dancing on the strings as if it were nothing. He looked at the window to see the sun setting over the city, and paused a moment to marvel at how lovely a sight it made.

"It was difficult, you know," Watson mumbled, breaking the temporary silence.

Holmes turned to face him, brows knit in curiosity. The comment was very unlike Watson to say.

"Those two years."

Holmes opened his mouth to speak, but Watson raised one of his hands. "It's not your fault, Holmes, don't apologize. I could have been stronger. I will not deny that more than once the thought of suicide had passed through my mind."

Feeling a pang of fear very similar to being hit by a carriage, Holmes's breath hitched in his throat.

"I kept hope, however. That was a quite the trick, you know, sending that oxygen tank. However it was that notion gave me some sort of hope. And more than once I have heard that hope is an excellent motivator."

"My dear—"

"Holmes, I'm not finished."

The detective snorted and fell silent, an amused smirk on his face despite himself.

Watson sighed, crossing his arms. "I'm just glad you're back, Holmes. I'm glad you're safe."

Running a hand through his friend's hair, Holmes smiled down at him. "Your concern is much appreciated," he told him, his voice low and soft. "Though no matter how many times you may tell me apologies are not needed, I—"

"Holmes."

He broke out in a large grin, putting the bowstring back to the instrument and played again. He was composing rather than playing from memory, inventing something new for his dear friend. The music he made was soft and comforting, and he felt Watson slowly slipping off next to him.

The sky got dark soon afterwards. Comfortable with where he sat and not wanting to wake Watson, Holmes reached over to shut off the lamp and set down his violin. He settled himself into the couch, his arms still draped over Watson's chest, and with an affectionate smile rested his head atop his and drifted off into slumber as well.

END


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